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AFTERNOONS OF APRIL 



AFTERNOONS OF APRIL 

A Book of Verse 



BY 

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

(Cbe fiitoerjribe ipitH Cambridge 

19*5 






COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY GRACE HAZARD CONKLING 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



Published October /grj 



OCT -41915 
©CU411798 

%0f 



TO MY FATHER 
Christopher Grant Hazard, D.D. 

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK 

* So now, in the end, if this the least be good, 
If any deed be done, if any fire 
Bum in the imperfect page, the praise be thine." 

R. L. S. 



CONTENTS 



Proserpina and the Sea'Nymphs 
The Barberry Bush 
Symphony of a Mexican Garden 
I. The Garden 

II. The Pool . 

III. The Birds 

IV. To the Moon . 



3 

9 
13 

13 

16 

17 
19 



Three Poems for R. P. C. . 

With a Little French Flower {to 
To R. P. C. with a Baton . 
Violin'Magic {to R. P. C.) . 

The White Peak {El Penon Blanco) 
To a Scarlet Tanager . 

The Ship 

On Arranging a Bowl of Violets 

To an Orchid 

Old Nurnberg 

A Beethoven Andante . 
To a NewBorn Baby Girl (L. H.) 
Three Rhymes {to an Air from Mozart) 

[ vii ] 



R. P. 



C.) 



21 
21- 

22 

25 

27 
28 

30 
32 

33 
34 

31 
38 
40 



I_ 



CONTENTS 

To the Lady in the Checkered Dress {a Pic- 
ture by Hilda Belcher) ..... 

The Little Town {written in Germany) . 

Allegretto Capriccioso .... 

Ave Venezia 

The Lagoon at Night [Venice) 

To Laurence Bin yon {after bearing his Lectures on 
Oriental Art) ....... 

Song of the Veery Thrush .... 

To Hermes {in the Museum) .... 

A Breath of Mint 

Message Deciphered on an Ancient Viola 
d'Amore 

To Stevenson {of some Critics) .... 

Andante con Moto . . . 

Motoring at Night 

To the Mexican Nightingale {El Clarin) . 

"I WILL NOT GIVE THEE ALL MY HEART" 

To the Donor of Certain Apples 
In a MusicRoom {to M. S. B.) ... 
Rheims Cathedral — 1914 .... 
The Chimes of Termonde .... 

Twelve Little Lyrics 

1. The Wind's Way .... 

2. The Wish 

[ viii ] 



CONTENTS 



3. Cake and Wine 

4. A Sunset Moment 

5. In an Old French Garden 

6. Evening Song . 

7. "Adios, Amigo" 

8. "Brown Veery" 

9. Magnolia Moons 

10. The River 

11. To the Wind . 

12. Nightingales . 

Poems for Elsa and Hilda 

Fairy Music: To Elsa and Hilda . 

To Elsa (On the Fly-Leaf of " A Child's 

Garden of Verses ") 
A Mexican Lullaby 
To Elsa (with a Volume of cc< The Arabian 

Nights") . 
To My Baby Hilda {with Hawthorne's 

" Wonder-Book ") 
Envoy : To Elsa and Hilda : Las Tardes de 

Abril . 



70 
70 

71 

71 

72 

73 
73 

74 
75 

75 

77 
79 

81 
82 

84 

87 
9 1 



Note. Certain of these poems have been printed in magazines, and ac- 
knowledgment of permission to reprint is made to the editors of the Atlantic 
Monthly y the Century Magazine, Poetry: A Magazine of Verse (Chicago), 
the Craftsman, the International, the Independent, the Smart Set, Everybody' s 
Magazine, Ains lee's Magazine, Harper* 's Magazine, and Putnam's Magazine. 



AFTERNOONS OF APRIL 



AFTERNOONS OF APRIL 

PROSERPINA AND THE SEA-NYMPHS 
PROSERPINA 

I tire of these embroideries. 
Now I have gilded all my stars 
And plumed with light my ilex'trees 
And made the moon and sun, there is 
The sea to finish. Only this 
Eludes my eager hand and mars 
The beauty of my tapestry. 
Which color of the changeful sea 
Would she most love, my mother ? Blue 
Superbly shadowed like her hood, 
Or blazing, like her peacock ? — hue 
Of dawn or wine or purple silk 
With foamy fringes white as milk ? 
There is a graygreen much her mood 
In early Spring. . . . Nay, I must go 
And ask the sea'nymphs. They will know. 



[3] 



PROSERPINA AND THE SEA-NYMPHS 

sea/nymphs (singing) 

Mother Ceres' daughter 

Straying down the shore, 
Brings with her a beauty 

Never known before. 
(Who had heard, until she came, 
Such a ripple of a name ?) 

PROSERPINA 

I hear them singing on the shore, 
My little sisters of the sea ! 
Surely I can return before 
The golden lonesome afternoon 
Leans toward the dusk ? 

i" shall come soon 
And weave a miracle for thee. 
My mother, out of showered light 
Upon great waters : and to-night 
Give thee my tapestry of dreams, 
And sing thee what the sisters sing. 
. . . Too bright the sea ! Unreal it seems, 
And so aloof, I hardly know, 
With all its glory changing so, 
How I dare try embroidering — 
Oh, they are there, all wet and cool 
From out the foam, and beautiful ! 

[4] 



PROSERPINA AND THE SEA-NYMPHS 

seA'NYMphs (singing) 

Is there any flower 

Delicate as she ? 
Only tender'breathing 

Sea'anemone. 
(Maidens, was there ever heard 
Such a little limpid word ?) 

PROSERPINA 

Laugh, laugh again, for I so love 

Your glittering laughter in the sun, 

Like sudden wavccrests fashioned of 

Bubbles and rainbows ! Did you say 

Nobody knew you came away ? 

Then I am not the only one 

Truant along these yellow sands ! 

(How soft your little starfish hands !) 

Now tell me, darlings, is it true 

You travel far within the sea, 

And drive the dolphins two and two ? 

And are there islands rooted deep, 

That you must scale like mountains steep, 

To find out what their names may be ? 

(/ made an island, once, a shore 

Dazzled with surf.) . . . Oh, tell me more ! 

[5] 



PROSERPINA AND THE SEA-NYMPHS 

seA'Nymphs {singing) 

Fair the clustered islands, 

Deep the coral wells ! 
You who bring us flowers, 

Do you like our shells ? 
These, all jeweled, only grow 
On an island that we know. 

Who has felt its beauty 

Cannot go away. 
It is like a crystal 

Irised in bright spray. . . . 
There is untold mystery 
In the islands of the sea ! 

One is all a garden, 

One has sands of gold. 
One is built of silver : 

One is very old, 
Made of coral, and most fair. 
One conceals the Gorgons* lair, 

Shells of many islands 

Blossoming from foam, 
See, they make a necklace ! 

Will you wear it home ? 
[6] 



PROSERPINA AND THE SEA-NYMPHS 

Asphodels are sweet, but ours 
Are the everlasting flowers. 

PROSERPINA 

And I shall keep them evermore ! 
But in the April'colored mead 
Beyond the crescent of the shore, 
There are such lilies ! Let me get 
Enough of them, with violet 
And hyacinth as I may need, 
To make you each a coronal ! 
You will not have to wait at all, 
They are so many and so sweet ! 
Throw me your little dripping kiss ! 
Look, there are wings upon my feet, 
Wait for me ! . . . 

{Alone) (Now, you asphodels 
Rosclined and petaled like sea'shells, 
Could any fate be strange as this — 
The nymphs' green tresses to confine, * 
And plunge full fathonvdeep in brine ?) 

I never thought to make them say 
The wisest color for my sea ! 
Corn-flower blue it was to'day, 
And veined with topaz. ... If I go 

[ 7 ] 



PROSERPINA AND THE SEA-NYMPHS 

Much farther, now the sun is low, 
The sisters will not wait for me, 
But April only once a year 
Comes true. . . . What loveliness is here — 
These unknown flowers waxen/white 
That glimmer in a starry crowd 
A'shiver with their own delight ? 
Mother must tell me. . . . Are they real ? 
Whence the sharp terror that I feel ? 
Dread Darkness — art thou god or cloud 
Enfolding me ? 

My mother \ oh 
Hear thou, and make him let me go ! 

SEA'NYMPHS (singing, far away) 

Do you see her coming ? 

Did you hear her call ? 
There is sudden menace 

In the sky, and all 
The bright waters have gone gray. 
Little friend \ we dare not stay! 



THE BARBERRY BUSH 

Threading the wood, if I might see 
A hamadryad leave her tree, 
Or Pan with dripping honeycomb 
Luring a nymph away from home, 
Eager to ask some friendly faun 
What way Proserpina had gone, 
Or catch an accent, pungent, wild, 
Of garrulous Hermes, like a child 
I grieved to miss them. Everything 
Was hushed : no creature cared to sing, 
Nor memory of song sufficed : 
The earth had grown unparadised. 

But where a barberry in flower 
Had tossed against the sun a shower 
Of pendent blossoms, golden shapes 
Clustered like small immortal grapes 
Grown for a baby Bacchus, all 
The air turned rich and musical 
With honeyed little changing chimes 
Only a bee makes when he climbs 
A bell'shaped bloom, and being stout, 
Shakes pollen/dust and music out. 
[ 9 ] 



THE BARBERRY BUSH 

Whether the barberry had made 

A compact with the winds, afraid 

To lose her sweets if wind should blow, 

Or what she offered, can I know ? 

But all her essence hovered there 

Diffused in aromatic air 

That glittered like a living wine : 

Her soul exhaled, besieging mine 

With beauty, making me at home 

Within the windless delicate dome 

Of vaulted fragrance over her : 

Some poignancy of mint or myrrh, 

Rosemarywhim, lavender'lure, 

Or balm of bruised balsam pure, 

Some whiff of fern, fennel or rue, 

Tang of the wild grass steeped in dew, 

Had Hermes flung her from mid'flight 

As benison for his delight ? 

For incenscstrange and spiced was she, 

A pensioner of Araby, 

Dreaming her dream of winged feet 

And cloud'lost laughter bittersweet. 

Yet not for Hermes did each urn 
Of hidden honey yield in turn 
Its amber to the pilgrim bees ! 
[ io ] 



THE BARBERRY BUSH 

Their god is Pan, the god of trees, 
Who pipes for them all blossonvnews, 
And knows what melody to use 
For ripe wild'grape and apple 'tree, 
And you in bloom, O Barberry ! 
Was that your motif 'that I heard 
His veery sing, in which recurred 
Honey and spices, grapcbloom mist, 
Young leaves in evening amethyst, 
With ringing of thin topaz bells 
Like small close 'clustered asphodels ? 

So sang Pan's veery, so sang he, 

That all the world was Thessaly, 

And any cedar might avail 

To hold an answering nightingale. 

The mosses by the oak'tree's root 

Caressed a gleaming naked foot, 

But quick as light the nymph was gone. 

I glimpsed the brown pursuing faun 

And heard the chiming of their glee. 

Proserpina eluded me, 

But from your blossoms showered down, 

I guessed the color of her gown — 

What else but color of the sun ? 

And singing veery there was none 

[ » ] 



THE BARBERRY BUSH 

Until into my mood you flowered, 
Illumining the wood unbowered. 

Now kindly Pan forevermore 
Be mindful of you ! May he store 
Your honey in Arcadian jars, 
Summon back Hermes from the stars 
Into your zone of spicy zest — 
A little Orient in the West ! 
Jeweled with bees, gilded with bloom, 
You shall hold court within your room 
If once he pipe beside the door, 
The Master Improvisator ! 
Thither may he resort, content 
To find you richly redolent, 
And make you music all your own, 
So river'sweet in reedy tone, 
It shall inspire at evening hush 
His brown immortal veery 'thrush. 



SYMPHONY OF A MEXICAN GARDEN 



I. THE GARDEN. 

II. THE POOL. 

III. THE BIRDS. 

IV. TO THE MOON. 



Poco sostenuto in A major 

" The laving tide of inarticulate air" 

Vivace in A major 

"The iris people dance" ' 

Allegretto in A minor 

" Cool-hearted dim familiar of the doves** 

Presto in F major 

"I keep a frequent tryst" 

Presto meno assai in D major 

"The blossom-powdered orange-tree" 

Allegro con brio in A major 

"Moon that shone on Babylon" 

* * 



TO MOZART 

What junipers are these, inlaid 

With Jlame of the pomegranate tree ? 
The god of gardens must ha<ve made 

This still unrumored place for thee 
To rest from immortality 

And dream within the splendid shade 
Some more elusive symphony 

Than orchestra has ever played. 



I. In A major 



THE GARDEN 

Poco sostenuto 

The laving tide of inarticulate air 
Breaks here in flowers as the sea- in foam, 
But with no satin lisp of failing wave ; 

C i3 ] 



SYMPHONY OF A MEXICAN GARDEN 

The odor 4aden winds are very still. : 

An unimagined music here exhales 

In upcurled petal, dreamy bud half'furled, 

And variations of thin vivid leaf: 

Symphonic beauty that some god forgot. 

If form could waken into lyric sound, 

This flock of irises like poising birds 

Would feel song at their slender feathered throats, 

And pour into a graywinged aria 

Their wrinkled silver finger-marked with pearl. 

That flight of ivory roses high along 

The airy azure of the larkspur spires 

Would be a fugue to puzzle nightingales 

With too'evasive rapture, phrase on phrase. 

Where the hibiscus flares would cymbals clash, 

And the black cypress like a deep bassoon 

Would hum a clouded amber melody. 

But all across the trudging ragged chords 
That are the tangled grasses in the heat, 
The mariposa lilies fluttering 
Like trills upon some archangelic flute, 
The roses and carnations and divine 
Small violets that voice the vanished god, 
There is a lure of passion'poignant tone 
Not flower/of'pomegranate (that finds the heart 

[ '4] 



THE GARDEN 

As stubborn oboes do) can breathe in air, 

Nor poppies, nor keen lime, nor orangcbloom. 

What zone of wonder in the ardent dusk 
Of trees that yearn and cannot understand, 
Vibrates as to the golden shepherd horn 
That stirs some great adagio with its cry 
And will not let it rest ? 

O tender trees, 
Your orchid, like a shepherdess of dreams, 
Calls home her whitest dream from following 
Elusive laughter of the unmindful god ! 

Vivace 

The iris people dance 
Like any nimble faun : 
To rhythmic radiance 
They foot it in the dawn. 
They dance and have no need 
Of crystal/dripping flute 
Or chuckling river^reed ; 
Their music hovers mute. 
The dawn'lights flutter by 
All noiseless, but they know ! 
Such children of the sky 
Can hear the darkness go. 
[ '5 ] 



SYMPHONY OF A MEXICAN GARDEN 

But does the morning play 
Whatever they demand, 
Or amber 'barred bourre 
Or silver saraband ? 

II. In A minor 

THE POOL 

Allegretto 

Cool'hearted dim familiar of the doves, 

Thou coiled sweet water where they come to tell 
Their mellow legends and rehearse their loves, 

As what in April or in June befell 
And thou must hear of, friend of Dryades 
Who lean to see where flower should be set 
To star the dusk of wreathed ivy braids, 
They have not left thy trees, 
Nor do tired fauns thy crystal kiss forget, 

Nor forest'nymphs astray from distant glades. 

Thou feelest with delight their showery feet 
Along thy mossy margin myrtle 'Starred, 
And thine the heart of wildness quick to beat 

At imprint of shy hoof upon thy sward : 
Yet who could know thee wild who art so cool, 
So heavenlyminded, templed in thy grove 
Of plumy cedar, larch and juniper ? 
O strange ecstatic Pool, 
[ 16] 



THE BIRDS 

What unknown country art thou dreaming of, 
Or temple than this garden lovelier ? 

Who made thy sky the silver side of leaves, 

And poised its orchid like a swan/white moon, 
Whose disc of perfect pallor half deceives 
The mirror of thy limpid green lagoon, 
He loveth well thy ripplcfeathered moods, 

Thy whims at dusk, thy rainbow look at dawn ! 
Dream thou no more of vales Olympian : 
Where pale Olympus broods, 
There were no orchid white as moon or swan, 
No sky of leaves, no garden'haunting Pan ! 



IIL Jn F major 

THE BIRDS 

Presto 

I keep a frequent tryst 
With whirr and shower of wings : 
Some inward melodist 
Interpreting all things, 
Appoints the place, the hours. 
Dazzle and sense of flowers 
Though not the least leaf stir, 
May mean a tanager ! 
How rich the silence is until he sings ! 

[ '7 ] 



SYMPHONY OF A MEXICAN GARDEN 

The smokctree's cloudy white 

Has fire within its breast. 

What winged mere delight 

There hides as in a nest 

And fashions of its flame 

Music without a name ? 

So might an opal sing, 

If given thrilling wing, 

And voice for lyric wildness unexpressed. 

In grassy dimness thatched 

With tangled growing things, 

A troubadour rose'patched 

With velvet'shadowed wings, 

Seeks a sustaining fly. 

Who else unseen goes by, 

Quick/pattering through the hush ? 

Some twilight ^footed thrush, 

Or finch intent on small adventurings ? 

I have no time for gloom, 
For gloom what time have I ? 
The orange is in bloom: 
Emerald parrots fly 
Out of the cypress'dusk : 
Morning is strange with musk : 
[ 18] 



TO THE MOON 

The wild canary now 

Jewels the lemon/bough, 

And mockingbirds laugh in the rose's room. 

Presto meno assai — D major 

The blossonvpowdered orangctree 
For all her royal speechlessness, 

Out of a heart of ecstasy 

Is singing, singing, none the less ! 

Light as a springing fountain, she 
Is spray above the wind'sleek turf: 

Dreanvdaughter of the moon's white sea, 
And sister to its showered surf! 



IV. In A major 

TO THE MOON 

Allegro con brio 

Moon that shone on Babylon, 
Searching out the gardens there, 
Could you find a fairer one 
Than this garden, anywhere ? 
Did Damascus at her best 
Hide such beauty in her breast ? 

When you flood with creamy light 
Vines that net the somber pine, 
[ '9 ] 



SYMPHONY OF A MEXICAN GARDEN 

Turn the shadowed iris white, 
Summon cactus stars to shine, 
Do you free in silvered air 
Wistful spirits everywhere ? 

Here they linger, there they pass, 
And forget their native heaven ! 
Flit along the dewy grass 
Rare Vittoria, Sappho, even ! 
And the hushed magnolia burns 
Incense in her gleaming urns. 

When the nightingale demands 
Word with Keats who answers him, 
Shakspeare listens, understands, 
Mindful of the cherubim: 
And the South Wind dreads to know 
Mozart gone as seraphs go. 

Moon of poets dead and gone, 
Moon to gods of music dear, 
Gardens they have looked upon, 
Let them rediscover here : 
Rest, and dream a little space 
Of some heart'remembered place ! 



THREE POEMS FOR R. P. C. 

WITH A LITTLE FRENCH FLOWER 
(To R. P. C.) 

Go tell him, yellow giroflee, 
I found you on an April day, 
Where the white Indre pours its slow 
Still silver round a gray chateau. 
From an old wall you leaned to see 
The moat reflect your witchery, 
Ere the sweet river turned again 
To wander on across Touraine. 

How the bees grumbled when I took 
Their flower to press it in my book ! 
The honey they had failed to get 
Within your heart lies hidden yet, 
As in my heart, unfound, unsought, 
The hidden honey of my thought : 
The shy words that I dare not say, 
Go tell him, yellow giroflee ! 



[21 ] 



TO R. P. C. WITH A BATON 

This wand that tapers slenderly 

From ebony to ivory, 

Can call from brass and wood and strings 

Beauty that is the soul of things. 

With this divining-rod, among 

Old woes and wonders long unsung 

Thy hand shall grope, instinct to feel 

What springs of music to unseal. 

For thee — as when a master nods — 

Shall sigh again the ancient gods : 

Returning o'er their starry track 

Thy summoned heroes shall come back. 

For thee shall sound the hardihood 

Of Mime's hammer in the wood, 

And clearly down its glades forlorn 

The challenge of young Siegfried's horn : 

Thy violins shall call and sing 

Like birds in Siegmund's House of Spring, 

Or cry the heartbreak and the stress 

Of Tristan's tragic tenderness : 

Thy gesture shall bewitch the sky 

With wild Valkyries streaming by : 

Again dark Wotan with a word 

[ " ] 



TO R. P. C. WITH A BATON 

Shall splinter the newwelded sword, 
Shall still the battle's clang and shock, 
And ring with flame Briinnhilde's rock ; 
And when on sobbing muted horns 
Gray prophecies of the gray Norns 
Foretell the coming twilight doom, 
Across the menace and the gloom 
Thy wand of magic shall not fail 
To fling the radiance of the Grail. 

When gods and heroes understand 
And answer to thy beckoning hand, 
Can I — if thou shalt set the time — 
Refuse to answer thee in rhyme ; 
Withhold the uncourageous song 
My soul has sheltered overlong ? 

As though a hidden mountain spring — 
Small dreaming inarticulate thing — 
Enchanted broad awake, should hear 
The ocean's diapason near, 
And chime of breakers on the sand 
Thrill o'er the phantom hills inland, 
(Nor recognize the organ'sound 
Of the soft'thundering pines around,) 
Then, musicstartled out of sleep, 

[ n ] 



TO R. P. C. WITH A BATON 

Should feel its tiny pulses leap, 
And up the sheer blue heights of air 
Against the very sun should dare 
Lift its frail praise, and bid rejoice 
Its thin and silver 'dropping voice, 
So shall that sealed and secret spring 
That is my soul, find voice to sing, 
By thy enchantment made aware 
How the deep calls along the air. 
Thy orchestra awake in the sun 
At highest heave and farthest run 
Shall fling me leagues on leagues away, 
The magic of its poignant spray : 
And I far inland, on that breath 
Shall taste Life bittersweet — and Death 
Shall send my song fluttering alone 
Where the sea calls unto its own — 
A sea-bird beating far from me 
Home to the breakers, home to sea. 



VIOLIN-MAGIC ^ 



(To R. P. C.) 



I heard you touch a fairy thing 
That lured the trees to blossoming : 
I saw them flush — and then you made 
Their green leaves greener as you played. 
You drew your bow so gently down 
I dared not breathe, lest breathing drown 
The tender little crooning tone 
That was a wood'thrush all alone. 
The tense string quivered, and I knew 
Where grasses strange with morning dew 
Climb a far hill I love, that all 
The drops they wore shone magical, 
Brimmed with the dawn, nor lovelier 
Than those your crystal measures were, 
The deepest forest 'dusk you found 
With silver darts of moonlit sound 
That pierced the trees' reluctant crowd 
And made the dryads laugh aloud; 
I hear them now, and one I hear 
Whose voice unearthlythin and clear 
Bears trace as through the trees she slips 
Of wildwood honey on her lips. 

[ *5] 



VIOLIN-MAGIC 

But when your enigmatic mood 
Nor dawn nor dusk of a deep wood 
Nor dryad's laugh nor thrush's song 
Nor April's blossoms would prolong, 
And only wayward beauty calls 
Along your argent intervals, 
Then am I tranced with listening, 
Lest my heart stir, or anything 
Within me question, and your soul 
Withdraw from mine its dear control ; 
Like him, Grail'sent, whom named of men 
The white swan bore away again. 



V 

THE WHITE PEAK 

(El Penon Blanco) 

It leans to hold the sunset 

Against its savage breast, 
Warmed by the last dull ragged red 

Wind-blown along the west. 

The dusk binds early stars 

About its gaunt old head, 
Reared where the winds of heaven go 

Their way unshepherded. 

One night I felt its heart beat 

In rhythm sad and slow : 
Was it the little calling bell 

That trembled far below ? 

Was it the wolf that wandered 

Unanswered, desolate, 
Out of despair of loneliness 

Chiding a silent mate ? 

God, how my heart remembers — 
Heard on that barren height — 

The bell that tolled, the wolf that cried, 
The passionate wind of night ! 

1 27 ] 



TO A SCARLET TANAGER 

My Tanager, what crescent coast 

Curving beyond what seas of air, 
Invites your elrin commerce most ? 

For I would fain inhabit there. 
Is it a corner of Cathay 

That I could reach by caravan, 
Or do you traffic far away 

Beyond the mountains of Japan \ 

If, where some iridescent isle 

Wears like a rose its calm lagoon, 
You plan to spend a little while, 

An April or a fervid June, 
Deign to direct my wanderings, 

And I shall be the one who sees 
Your scarlet pinnace furl its wings 

And come to anchor in the trees. 

Do you collect for merchandise 

Ribbons of weed and jeweled shells, 

And dazzle color'hungry eyes 

With rainbows from the coral wells ? 
[ 28 ] 



TO A SCARLET TANAGER 

But when your freight is asphodels, 
You must be fresh from Enna's lawn ! 

Who buys, when such a merchant sells, 
And in what market roofed with dawn ? 

Much would it ease my spirit, if 

To'day I might embark with you, 
Lowdrifting like the milkweed skiff, 

Or voyaging against the blue, 
To learn who speeds your ebon sails, 

And what you do in Ispahan ? 
Do you convey to nightingales 

Strange honey 'dew from Hindostan ? 

With you for master'mariner, 

I yet might travel very far : 
Discover whence your cargoes were, 

And whither tending, by a star : 
Or what ineffable bazaar 

You most frequent in Samarkand : 
Or even where those harbors are 

Keats found forlorn, in fairyland. 



THE SHIP 

Today my little Ship comes home, 
And I will tell you what it brings : 

Beyond the pale enchanted foam 
I see its wings. 

Tb'day my little Ship comes home. 

It brings a seven'petaled rose 

That on the steps of Paestum grew : 

Beauty that now no mortal knows 
This wild rose knew. 

It brings a seven/petaled rose. 

It brings the reed a faun forgot 

Because a dryad was so fair. 
(Now he is loved and needs it not, 

He will not care.) 
It brings the reed a faun forgot. 

It brings a little cedar'tree 

From white Olympus many/glenned : 
(Of weary gods it used to be 

The welWoved friend.) 
It brings a little cedar /tree. 

[30] 



THE SHIP 

Age'ripened wine it brings, likewise : 
Sharp honey from Hymettus' hill : 

Clear turquoise twilights found 'neath skies 
Sea'fringed and chill. 

Age'ripened wine it brings, likewise. 

My laden Ship comes bounding home 
To shaken throats of nightingales. 

Salt crystals from iEgean foam 
Cling to its sails. 

Tcday my little Ship comes home. 



ON ARRANGING A BOWL OF VIOLETS 

I dip my hands in April among your faces tender, 

woven of blue air and ecstasies of light ! 

Breathed words of the Earth'Mother, although it is Novem' 

ber, 
You wing my soul with memories adorable and white. 

1 hear you call each other : 

" Ah, Sweet, do you remember 
The garden that we haunted — its spaces of delight ? 
The sound of running water — the day's long lapse of 

splendor, 
The winds that begged our fragrance and loved us in the 

night?" 



[32] 



TO AN ORCHID 

Moon'HORNED orchid in the oak, 
Uttering thee, what spirit spoke ? 
Thou who hearest patiently 
Humble patois of the bee, 
Hast thou anything to tell 
Of the angel Israfel ? 

Who would murmur half aloud 
Word of wind or star or cloud, 
If thy beauty were a throat 
For his far ethereal note ? 
He by whom thou wert designed 
Kin of cloud and star and wind ? 

Mystic flower, coukTst thou say 

If the little children play 

Much with Mozart where he dreams 

Daylong by the heavenly streams ? 

Does he tire of asphodel ? 

And with Keats, oh, is it well ? 



[ 33] 



OLD NURNBERG 

You mellow minstrel of a town, 

So suave and weather'warmed and brown, 

So red and blue and unafraid 

Of colors Titian might have made, 

Carmine and cobalt scarce belong 

In sturdy staves of German song, 

Which as you sing, you dare bedeck 

With cadenced tints of peacock's neck! 

You make and sing, as you have done 

Through centuries of shade and sun, 

A naive music that beguiles, 

Of porcelain spires and peach'bloom tiles, 

And at your brownest you reveal 

A message exquisitely real — 

Dark topaz eaves of some old inn, 

Or houscfront like a violin. 

Was amber most your mood, when he, 
The Master, 1 marked your minstrelsy, 
Or did you dream in azure smoke 
And hide your colors 'neath a cloak ? 

1 Richard Wagner. 

[34 ] 



OLD NURNBERG 

Had your least tower been less fair, 
Less like a voice across the air, 
Or any dome less gold and blue, 
Would he have stayed for love of you ? 

To him whom you enthralled so long, 

You were the singer and the song : 

Within your streets the tawny tone 

Of ancient houses, most your own, 

Was like an Aria he heard, 

Bold rhythm mated to proud word, 

And balcony or carven door 

Struck chords he may have missed before. 

Can you recall what undertones 
Of mirth along your cobblestones 
Allured him, or what far-flung spells 
From lanes of legendary bells ? 
Somehow your beauty let him hear 
Forgotten voices singing clear : 
Somehow you made your meaning plain, 
That Herr Hans Sachs might live again. 

The Master long ago has gone, 
But like his music, you sing on, 
In colors clear and magical — 

[ 35] 



OLD NURNBERG 

Emerald, coral, cardinal. 

... I pray you, guard your antique grace, 

The fountain in your marketplace, 

Your doves, your bells — and belfries too — 

And that brown'amber smile of you 1 



A BEETHOVEN ANDANTE 

The wood wind warbled wisely 

Of how the dusk begins 
Before the glow of sunset 

Had left the violins : 
And a cool flute spoke purely, 

As though some spirit far, 
Within the sunset's hollow 

Had lit the evening star. 

But when a simple oboe 

Sang low and shepherd'sweet, 
It was the awaited summons 

That made the dusk complete. 
Oh, quietly it led us, 

With crook of slender gold, 
Across the starry pastures 

Into the farthest fold. 



[37] 



TO A NEW-BORN BABY GIRL 
(L. H.) 

And did thy sapphire shallop slip 
Its moorings suddenly, to dip 
Adown the clear, ethereal sea 
From star to star, all silently ? 
What tenderness of archangels 
In silver thrilling syllables 
Pursued thee, or what dulcet hymn 
Lo wchanted by the cherubim ? 
And thou departing must have heard 
The holy Mary's farewell word, 
Who with deep eyes and wistful smile 
Remembered Earth a little while. 

Now from the coasts of morning pale 
Comes safe to port thy tiny sail. 
Now have we seen by early sun, 
Thy miracle of life begun. 
All breathing and aware thou art, 
With beauty templed in thy heart 
To let thee recognize the thrill 
Of wings along far azure hill, 

[38] 



TO A NEW-BORN BABY GIRL 

And hear within the hollow sky 
Thy friends the angels rushing by. 
These shall recall that thou hast known. 
Their distant country as thine own, 
To spare thee word of vales and streams, 
And publish heaven through thy dreams. 
The human accents of the breeze 
Through swaying star'acquainted trees 
Shall seem a voice heard earlier, 
Her voice, the adoring sigh of her, 
When thou amid rosy cherub'play 
Didst hear her call thee, far away, 
And dream in very Paradise 
The worship of thy mother's eyes. 






THREE RHYMES 

(To an Air from Mozart) 
I 

The fairest tree the year can show, 
It is the tree of May time snow: 
The plum, the cherry and the pear 
With snowstorms tangled in their hair ! 

II 

The kindest brook that heart can wish, 
Pours amber 'round its silver fish, 
Runs not too deep, runs not too wild, 
And follows like a friendly child. 

in 

The strangest of all fairy spells 
Is in the veery's waft of bells, 
That leaves the soul in midmost air 
To climb the twilight's twinkling stair. 



[40] 



TO THE LADY IN THE CHECKERED DRESS 

(A picture by Hilda Belcher) 

Lady, may a lover guess 
Why you destined for your dress 
Ebony and ivory 
Intermingled curiously ? 
Were you thinking of the moon 
Spilling silver upon June, 
And the velvet dark that holds 
Roses curtained in its folds ? 
Had you seen at midmost night 
Pale magnolia lamps alight ? 
In the faint sweet garden where 
Lilies make a pool more fair, 
Found them dimly shining yet, 
Alabaster over jet f 
Did you dream, could you know 
Snow and shadow upon snow 
Thus would lend fantastic grace 
To your subtlysmiling face ? 
Could you know, did you guess 
Such a daring rhythmic dress, 
Gleaming here, darkening there, 

[41 ] 



TO THE LADY IN THE CHECKERED DRESS 

Would but render you more rare ? 

Something whimsical in you 

Tells me that you surely knew : 

Tells me that you chose and planned 

Whiteness that should match your hand : 

Squares of dusk to suit your hair 

And the shadows prisoned there. 

Made of mystery as you are, 

And remote as any star, 

There is still your charm that clings — 

Little wayward human things 

That allure, that beguile : 

Mona Lisa so would smile ! 

Still be kind, nor love me less 

That the challenge of your dress, 

O Fastidious and Sweet, 

Gives me courage at your feet ! 



THE LITTLE TOWN 

(Written in Germany) 

little town of memories, 

So brown and golden in the light, 
Do you remember one who sees 
You beckon, day and night ? 

There is a sweet French town that broods 
Dovcgray upon a rounded hill, 
Whose peopled streets were solitudes 
To me, a wanderer still. 

And in the South, a white town sleeps. 
Carven of ivory it seems, 
But a man's heart perversely keeps 
Such beauty for his dreams. 

The rosiest, coziest town I know 
Is this above the rushing Rhine : 
Here might he stay who could not go 
Home to a town like mine. 

They do not know you, little town, 
Who say that all roads lead to Rome : 

1 Ve tramped the broad world up and down, 
And every road leads home. 

[43 ] 



ALLEGRETTO CAPRICCIOSO 

Beyond the river, lit by the low sun, 

The green flame of the marshes dares the dusk, 

And hems us in with thrilling emerald. 

A redwinged blackbird rides a river'reed 

As though it were a galleon, 

And he, bold mariner, after many days 

Of sailing perilous seas, were come to anchor 

To leeward of some iridescent isle. 

The tide 's at flood, 

And shining ripples run along the reeds. 

Suddenly you discover 

Where an inverted elvish lily 'leaf 

Wears horns and pointed beard : Pan or his satyr, 

Who slides behind the boat and vanishes 

With backward grimace. 

Somewhere upon the rim of sunset 

A veery builds a magical tower of tone, 

Amber and golden, 

That gleams, once heard, 

And crumbles into starlight. 

The hills grow dim : they are putting on their stars. 
The little pomegranate clouds 

[ 44] 



ALLEGRETTO CAPRICCIOSO 

That ripened in the sky are all forgotten : 
The hour passes. 

But in my heart I know 

One day a wind will blow softly from nowhere — 

The immemorial wind of faery — 

And I shall hear a veery preluding starlight 

Down by the gilded river 

Where the tide runs and chuckles in the reeds : 

Instantly I shall see 

The redwing flash above the emerald marsh, 

The inverted lily masquerade as satyr : 

Once more the little clouds 

Pomegranate 'tinted, 

Shall hang like wondrous fruit in highest heaven, 

Ripe for archangels : 

And I shall glimpse as now the gleam in your eyes, 

Not bent upon me full — that were too human ! — 

But peering sidewise like an ecstatic faun's. 



AVE VENEZIA 

The ocean is a garden 

That folds you closely home 

With larkspuivblue from heaven, 
And roses of bright foam. 

The dawn upon your waters 

Is like anemones. 
Your noons are flaked with scarlet 

As from pomegranate trees. 

The bubble towers that sunset 
Dilates with rainbow light, 

Dusk turns to shadowed silver 
Like olive-trees at night. 

O silver of dark olives, 

Of cool night/shrouded seas. 

That gives you rest from color, 
And time for memories ! 



[46] 



THE LAGOON AT NIGHT 
(Venice) 

Immemorial lagoon, 

Where the drifted dusk lies deep, 
Do lost years with ghostly shoon 

Steal across your sighing sleep ? 

Is it wistfulness compels 

Darkling waves to lift and gleam ? 
Do the Campanile bells 

Summon back an ancient dream ? 

Are they wings that fan your tide ? 

In the darkness can you see 
All the angels almond-eyed 

Heaven lent to Italy ? 

All the faces meekly fair 

Only Botticelli knew, 
And serene in native air, 

Lippo Lippi's angels, too ? 

Night -'blue water, deep and dim, 
When your ripples tremble, are 

Raphael's little cherubim 

Winging toward their distant star ? 

[47 ] 



TO LAURENCE BINYON 

{After hearing his lectures on Oriental Art) 

This song is yours, for wonder of a mountain 
With filmy cone of immemorial snow, 

And for the windings of a river/valley 

Whose crags and mists your spirit seemed to know. 

You delicately spoke, and far trees murmured : 
The waterfall stood white against the wind : 

I scarce could tell its wistful shape of beauty 
From that revealing beauty of your mind. 

In plum-tree blossom and in peacock feather 

You read the rune of immortality. 
You gave a soul to tiger and to tempest, 

And that dire dragon of the coiled sea. 

By a lone lake where most the wild fowl gather, 
I thought you seemed to linger as at home. 

Or have you known the lost shore's fairy margin 
That Keats remembered for its fragile foam ? 

This is your song : for when my soul was empty, 
You were strange beauty's unsuspected priest 

To fill it, like a garden, full of flowers — 

Those flowers that are the angels of the East. 

[48 ] 






SONG OF THE VEERY THRUSH 

If through gray dusk there come to thee 

From poplar 'Spire or cedar'tree 

A little agile melody 

With winged feet, like Mercury, 

O let thy spirit follow where 
It flits into the upper air ! 
For only so may mortals dare 
Ascend the twilight's mystic stair. 

The veery pondering alone 

Devises magic of his own, 

And wings with many a gleaming tone 

His messengers divine, unknown. 

... It is the moment ! Now behold 
The swift flight — ere the world turn cold ! 
Those notes like feathers of thin gold 
A'whirl in spirals manifold — 

O still thyself to hear them, ere 
There be no singing anywhere, 
Nor echoes even, for a stair 
Of music up the serene air ! 

[49] 



TO HERMES 

(In the Museum) 

Hermes, your little lovely boy, 

Adoring you with look and laugh, 
Implores you to remember joy 

You had of feathered foot and staff: 
How soon and gladly would you go, 

If chubby fingers marblcpale 
Tugged with the warmth they used to know, 

And softness certain to prevail ! 

If, when he wonders to behold 

The exiled fauns and centaurs sad, 
Some memory of a coast of gold, 

Or glimpse of Ithaca you had, 
Or galley white against the sea, 

Shall give your feet their wings again, 
Will you not haste to set him free 

From halls so cold and alien ? 

Should gods who grieve to see you go 

Lean wistfully to bid you stay, 
Tell them your baby boy must know 

The elder beauty even as they : 
[50] 



TO HERMES 

Must learn the lure of island foam, 
And Etna's plume of vapor pale, 

And why these make him most at home — 
Vineyard and sea and nightingale ! 



A BREATH OF MINT 

What small leaf'fingers veined with emerald light 
Lay on my heart that touch of elfin might ? 

What spirals of sharp perfume do they fling, 
To blur my page with swift remembering ? 

Borne in a country basket marketward, 
Their message is a music spirit'heard, 

A pebblchindered lilt and gurgle and run 
Of tawny singing water in the sun. 

Their coolness brings that ecstasy I knew 

Down by the mint'fringed brook that wandered through 

My mellow meadows set with linden'trees 
Loud with the summer jargon of the bees. 

Their magic has its way with me until 
I see the storm's dark wing shadow the hill 

As once I saw : and draw sharp breath again, 
To feel their arrowy fragrance pierce the rain. 

[ 52] 



A BREATH OF MINT 

O sudden urging sweetness in the air, 
Exhaled, diffused about me everywhere, 

Yours is the subtlest word the summer saith, 
And vanished summers sigh upon your breath. 



MESSAGE DECIPHERED ON AN ANCIENT VIOLA 

D'AMORE 

If you will listen when I sing, 
You restless little Leaf of Spring, 

Will close a while those ardent eyes, 
And keep those hands from fluttering, 

You shall detect the vain disguise 
That music is for lovers' sighs, 

And hear them breathe immortally 
Through tones astray from Paradise. 

Brim with the fluent gold of me, 
My amber pouring melody, 

As brooks with liquid sunlight do : 
Your spirit's minstrel I would be ! 

Nay, let me be your sky of blue, 
You whirling Almond Petal, you ! 

The wind that chases you shall know 
'T is Heaven he has lost you to ! 

What willing wind can ever blow 
Your flowery fancies to and fro, 

[ 54 ] 



ON AN ANCIENT VIOLA D'AMORE 

As my least zephyr of a phrase, 
That urges and allures them so ? 

My Mistress, lo, I am the praise 
Of your most delicate wild ways, 

For I am Love. Oh, hear me sing 
The beauty of your nights and days ! 



TO STEVENSON 

{Of some Critics) 

They scan the page all musical with perfect word and 

phrase, 
And frown to find you trivial who talk of primrose ways, 
Nor fathom your brave laughter, nor know the way you 

trod, 
O serious'hearted wanderer upon the hills of God ! 

There where you lie beneath the sky far in a lonely land, 
You who were even glad to die, — care not who under/ 

stand 
Your whimsical sweet strays of tune and your heroic 

mirth — 
Diviner of Arcadian ways throughout the dreary earth! 



[56] 



ANDANTE CON MOTO 

Across the quiet air there flows a tide 

Of homing pigeons : soft 

They settle on the carven cornices 

And dip, and coo, and take the sun 

That lies in shining ripples on their necks 

And gilds their breasts. 

The old gray church has set 

To front the west, 

A dome of tremulous amber, 

Full of light: 

The belfry frames a little colored cloud. 

The strong sun, low and lower, 

Grows reminiscent ere he vanishes. 

Beyond the other towers 

The evening star emerges luminous, 

And the sky dims, recedes, and grows more vast. 

The pigeons are asleep. 

The church is veiled 

In filmy dusk, and in the darkening city 

Lights begin. 

So tired I am : and how the night 
Comes surely, softly ! 
It will be good to sleep. 

[57] 



t MOTORING AT NIGHT 

When we had crossed the hills at last, 
Smooth moth'gray valleys fluttered past : 
Through gossamer mist and silver dew 
We followed stars where stars were few, 
And down a hollow country ran 
That wore the moon for talisman. 
Here, locust blossoms were in spray, 
And wild'grape fragrance barred the way 
With sudden walls of vague delight : 
We brushed them by, we pierced the night, 
Into the secret hours we sped, 
With green leaves pouring overhead 
From steady, somber trees. We found 
The dim aloof enchanted ground 
Where iris flowers beneath the moon 
Bind on wild Hermes' winged shoon : 
And then, ere yet the spell was gone, 
We stopped, an hour before the dawn, 
Under a dreanvsequestered oak, 
Hearkened our hearts, nor moved nor spoke 
Till like a bright wind running by, 
Aurora flitted up the sky. 

[58] 



TO THE MEXICAN NIGHTINGALE 

(£/ Clariti) 

Clarin, from what glens of air 
Chime your cameo'colored bells ? 
When they ring, I know them rare, 
Fluted like the lips of shells 
For the tone to ripple down, 
Honeypale or amber 'brown. 

When the tawny evening spills 

Drops of topaz down the pine, 

Light denied the dusking hills 

Do you gather and confine 

In some clear aerial jar, 

On the branch where flits the star ? 

Do you pour the liquid light 
Early from your lyric urn ? 
Nay, it was at midmost night 
That I heard among the fern 
Golden drops that fell in showers, 
Shaken down as out of flowers ! 
[ 59] 



TO THE MEXICAN NIGHTINGALE 

When the rain of light was gone, 
Poured in rhyming gold like rain, 
How your elfin bells at dawn 
Delicately chimed again, 
Soft as sea'shells murmur of 
Her whose lovely name is Love ! 

Did the FoanvBorn brim those bells 
With the wistful melodies 
Of enchanted vocal shells ? 
Does the satin sigh of trees 
Bring a memory of foam ? 
Clarin, do you sing of home ? 



\f 



"I WILL NOT GIVE THEE ALL MY HEART" 

I will not give thee all my heart 

For that I need a place apart 

To dream my dreams in, and I know 

Few sheltered ways for dreams to go : 

But when I shut the door upon 

Some secret wonder — still, withdrawn — 

Why dost thou love me even more, 

And hold me closer than before ? 

When I of Love demand the least, 

Thou biddest him to fire and feast : 

When I am hungry and would eat, 

There is no bread, though crusts were sweet. 

If I with manna may be fed, 

Shall I go all uncomfbrted ? 

Nay ! Howsoever dear thou art, 

I will not give thee all my heart. 



[61 ] 



TO THE DONOR OF CERTAIN APPLES 

May every day that makes the year 
As luring to your eyes appear 
And fragrant to your sense, as those 
Your apples streaked with gold and rose : 
Like them in beauty manifold, 
Be curved and exquisite to hold, 
All flavored with the wind and sun, 
And brimmed with sweetness every one. 
Could ordinary mortals know 
The western orchard where they grow, 
And watch the artist hours put on 
New saffron and vermilion, 
How master a more delicate art 
For joy to ripen in the heart ? 
Or who could covet after these, 
Mere gold from the Hesperides ? 



[62] 



IN A MUSIC-ROOM 

(To M. S. B.) 

This room of lucent shoal'sea green, 
With windowradiance poured between, 
Is brimmed with reminiscent sound, 
Like one the lost Endymion found, 
When, wandering the ocean'floor, 
He entered an enchanted door, 
And heard the billows boom like bells 
Above his head : and singing shells 
In curious crystal monotone 
Made him forget he was alone. 
So I, within this lovely room, 
Evade all wistfulness and gloom, 
Hearing the great piano sing 
Sweet as Theocritus in Spring. ■ 
The pictures on the sea-green walls 
To what etherial festivals 
Allure the thought ? Is it for this 
The player faces Artemis, 
Who from her glancing golden frame 
Bends whitely as a crescent flame 

[6 3 ] 



IN A MUSIC-ROOM 

To feel the wind of music blow, 

As once she felt it long ago ? 

And some immortal, lately gone, 

Opened a window to the dawn 

In yonder shimmering canvas, blue 

And silver ^green and lit with dew, 

A subtle lyric for the eyes 

In rhythms of the wild sunrise ! 

. . . But here is moonlight for the soul 

Of the sun'wearied, where the whole 

Broad ocean flashes bright and bare 

Within a painter's magic square, 

And through the splendor flutters pale 

The wraith of a receding sail. 

And here, above the mystic keys 

Whose nocturnes rhyme with memories, 

Content at quiet close of day, 

Four Venice doves in blue and gray 

Colored like dusk, divinely drowse. 

• •••••• 

Now in this temple of white vows 
To Beauty, I would breathe my own, 
For here no mortal prays alone. 

Once more, thou Polish Keats , a boon ! 
Snare me the music of the moon. 

[64] 



IN A MUSIC-ROOM 

Mozart, thy winged sandals on, 
Show me the way to Helicon. 

Dear Robert Schumann, by thy grace 
Detain shy Beauty in this place. 

And thou, Beethoven, oh, invite 
The gods to linger here to-night ! 



RHEIMS CATHEDRAL— 1914 

A winged death has smitten dumb thy bells, 
And poured them molten from thy tragic towers 
Now are the windows dust that were thy flowers 
Patterned like frost, petaled like asphodels. 
Gone are the angels and the archangels, 
The saints, the little lamb above thy door, 
The shepherd Christ ! They are not, any more, 
Save in the soul where exiled beauty dwells. 
But who has heard within thy vaulted gloom 
That old divine insistence of the sea, 
When music flows along the sculptured stone 
In tides of prayer, for him thy windows bloom 
Like faithful sunset, warm immortally ! 
Thy bells live on, and Heaven is in their tone ! 



[66] 



THE CHIMES OF TERMONDE 

The groping spires have lost the sky- 
That reach from Termonde town : 

There are no bells to travel by, 
The minster chimes are down. 

It 's forth we must, alone, alone, 
And try to find the way : 

The bells that we have always known, 
War broke their hearts to-day. 

They used to call the morning 
Along the gilded street, 

And then their rhymes were laughter. 
And all their notes were sweet. 

I heard them stumble down the air 

Like seraphim betrayed : 
God must have heard their broken prayer 

That made my soul afraid. 
The Termonde bells are gone, are gone, 

And what is left to say ? 
It *s forth we must, by bitter dawn, 

To try to find the way. 

[6 7 ] 



THE CHIMES OF TERMONDE 

They used to call the children 
To go to sleep at night : 

And then their songs were tender 
And drowsy with delight. 

The wind will look for them in vain 

Within the empty tower. 
We shall not hear them sing again 

At dawn or twilight hour. 
It 's forth we must, away, away, 

And far from Termonde town, 
But this is all I know tcday — 

The chimes, the chimes are down ! 

They used' to ring at evening 
To help the people pray, 

Who wander now bewildered, 
And cannot find the way. 



TWELVE LITTLE LYRICS 



THE WIND'S WAY 



A white way is the wind's way, 

The silver side o' the leaf: 

Follow the wind, heart of mine, 

Heart of grief! 

Wind of the dawn, wind of the dusk, 

Winged wind of the day, 
Who would follow the wind must go 
The wind's way. 



THE WISH 

The eastern cloud had morning at its core: 
The river stood in silver at my door: 
The valley held a great wind like the sea, 
That poured its surging rapture over me, 
And flung me challenge through the singing pine, 
" Who could dispel such wistfulness as thine ? 

[69 ] 



TWELVE LITTLE LYRICS 

What hath the dawn forgotten or deferred ? " 
I said, " From him, my only love, one word ! K 



CAKE AND WINE 



She took a pinch of pollen'dust, 

A drop of moonlit dew, 
And made the elf a magic cake 

To help his vigil through : 

And when the dawn crept up the sky, 

With wine of clover pink 
Spiced with heartsease, she brimmed a cup, 

And gave it him to drink. 



A SUNSET MOMENT 

I saw a cloud bloom in the west, 
The color of a robin's breast, 
And poppies in a cheerful crowd, 
That caught the color of the cloud: 
The garden walls so white before 
Flushed to the red the poppies wore ; 

1 70] 



EVENING SONG 

And when a wine/winged butterfly — 
Flake of the sunset — floated by, 
Quite suddenly on every hand 
There lay before me Fairyland. 



IN AN OLD FRENCH GARDEN 

Once more down alleys sweet and dim 

Glimmers the Spring begun: 
The merchild on the fountain'rim 

Romps naked in the sun : 
The marble Pan has poised his reed 

As though in act to play, 
Yet pipes no summons. Who would heed 

Now you have gone away? 



EVENING SONG 

Little flakes of sunset 
Blown about the sky, 

Burn like trellised roses 
Blooming heaven/high, 

1 71 ] 



TWELVE LITTLE LYRICS 

You should have one for your hair, 
And a star to pin it there, 
If the wind were I ! 

Perilous your roscface! 

How shall I beware? 
No gold so forbidden 

As your shining hair ! 
Rose of sunset, golden rose, 
If you knew what my heart knows. 

Would it make you care? 



7 

"ADIOS, AMIGO" 

Farewell, comrade ! 

Follow the trail. 

Does it avail 
That I am sad ? 

When the day dies, 

Where will you be ? 
The stars shall see 

Tears in my eyes. 

[ 72 ] 



MAGNOLIA MOONS 



8 



"BROWN VEERY" 



Brown veery by the river, 

Brown wood thrush in the pine, 
Your golden harps a'quiver 

Shall silence song of mine ! 
Until my thouteht deliver 

One phrased frail and fine, 
Sing, Minstrel by the river, 

Sing, Poet in the pine ! 



MAGNOLIA MOONS 

Last night the moon of April 
Went sailing up the sky. 

I crept into the garden 
When nobody was by, 

For it was long past bedtime 
For children such as I. 

The garden was n't sleepy 
Even so late at night : 
[ 73] 



TWELVE LITTLE LYRICS 

The cactus'buds were open, 

Brimful of silver light, 
And all the great magnolia 

Had flowered in globes of white. 

I saw they were moon'colored 
And shiny, just the way 

The big moon looked above me : 
And there I meant to stay, 

But mother said magnolia moons 
Would shine as bright next day. 



10 
THE RIVER 

As I went down the cedar stair, 
I saw the river pacing fair 
Between its tender tilted lawns, 
And past a thousand sailing swans. 

And I forgot strange talk of wars, 
To see its ripples swarm with stars : 
And all the thoughts that I could think 
Were swans along the river'brink. 

[ 74] 



NIGHTINGALES 
n 

TO THE WIND 

You little lovely wind 

With starry brow, 
What gift have you in mind 

To bring us now ? 

You cross the lilaotree 

On silver feet, 
But it is memory 

Makes you so sweet ! 

For such a wind as you 

With stars above, 
Led day/worn lovers to 

Their night of love. 

12 
NIGHTINGALES 

At sunset my brown nightingales 
Hidden and hushed all day, 

Ring vespers, while the color pales 
And fades to twilight gray : 
[ 75 ] ' 



TWELVE LITTLE LYRICS 

The little mellow bells they ring, 

The little flutes they play, 
Are soft as though for practising 

The things they want to say. 
It 's when the dark has floated down 

To hide and guard and fold, 
I know their throats, that look so brown, 

Are really made of gold. 
No music I have ever heard 

Can call as sweet as they ! 
I wonder if it is a bird 

That sings within the hidden tree, 

Or some shy angel calling me 
To follow far away? 



POEMS FOR ELSA AND HILDA 



FAIRY MUSIC 
TO ELSA AND HILDA 

O you shall play a seaweed harp, 

And you, a beechnut violin, 
Till your thin music silver'sharp 

Invites the vagrant fireflies in. 

And you shall play a moonbeam flute, 
And you, a mullein'stalk bassoon, 

Till all the crickets gather mute 
To criticize beneath the moon. 

And you shall play the shepherd horn 
That calls white fancies home like sheep 

And you, the oboe all forlorn 
That Oberon gave you to keep. 

For you will both be fairies then. 

And one shall sound a coiled shell 
To pilot fairy sailormen, 

And one shall ring a crystal bell. 

And you with yellow hair will need 

A willow whistle cut at dawn : 

L 79] 



POEMS FOR ELSA AND HILDA 

But you shall play a river 'reed 
Like any little nut-brown faun. 

And Syrinx will forget to flee, 

And Pan, what mischief he had planned 
And she with you will dance while he 

Pipes up the moon of Fairyland. 



TO ELSA 

{On the Fly-Leaf of "A Child's Garden of Verses") 

All on a day of gold and blue, 
Hearken the children calling you ! 
All on a day of blue and gold, 
Here for your baby hands to hold, 
Flower and fruit and fairy bread 
Under the breathing trees are spread. 
Here are kind paths for little feet : 
Follow them, darling ! You shall meet 
Past the enchanted garden'door, 
Friends by the hundred : maybe more ! 
Why do you linger ? Ah, you elf, 
Must he come for you then himself? 
He of the laughing look and mild, 
Whimsical master, glorious child ? 
There you go now, away from me. 

" Where are you Elsa ? " 

It is he ! 

" Come, we must hurry, I and you, 
We Ve such a number of things to do : 
Posies to gather, thrushes to hear, 
People to wonder about, my dear ! 
Take my hand like a good girl. Yes, 
I am the gardener, R. L. S." 
[ 81 ] 



A MEXICAN LULLABY 

Away across the yellow plain 

The sleepy sun before he goes 
Has hung the shoulders of the hills 

With velvet folds of gold and rose : 
And in the garden of the sky 

The petals of the stars uncurl 
Like flowers blooming overhead : 

It 's sleepy time, my brown'eyed girl ! 

The mules are safe in the corral : 

The burros on the homeward road 
Trudge patiently along and think 

Of laying down the heavy load : 
And high upon the mountainside 

The goat ^herd's camp-fire, all ashine, 
Tells that the goats have gone to bed. 

Good'night, O bluceyed maid of mine ! 

What if the big white stars come out 
And find the whole world sound asleep 

Excepting just two little girls 

Whose wilful eyes wide open keep ? 

[82] 



A MEXICAN LULLABY 

And there are winged dreams that come 
To flutter 'round your beds at night : 

They never kiss wide-open eyes, 

So cuddle down, and shut them tight ! 



TO ELSA 

{With a volume of il The Arabian Nights ") 

When first your dimpled foot shall press 

The enchanted carpet, who can guess 

To what unhallowed crescent coast 

It may transport you : to what host 

Of turbaned aliens, clamoring, 

Abandon you, or to what king? 

A lure beyond the silken sea 

Of amber light and ivory, 

A porcelain tower, a gilded wall, 

A low, monotonous bell to call 

You inland from the smiling strand, 

And, oh, it might be Samarkand ! 

But wandering, a child alone, 

Whose hand would comfort you, my own ? 

You are so little, who would heed 

To give you sweetened milk at need, 

Honey, and dates, and let you taste 

Pistachio'nut and almond'paste, 

Citron and fig and magic myrrh, 

And bathe you all in rose-water, 

And see you shod in sandalwood ? 

If only bells you understood, 

[84] 



TO ELSA 

What voice would soothe your drowsy hour, 
My just/unfurled pomegranatcflower ? 

When first that swift steed, raven/black, 
Bears you to Bagdad on his back, 
Nor keeps the ground, but soars in air 
And prances gloriously there, 
Will you forget me in your glee ? 
For he has fed on sesame 
Until he dares forbidden things : 
And feeling you between his wings, 
What if he fled beyond the sun 
And stars with you, my golden one ? 

Or seaward'swept at sunset, while 
He heeds your laughter, some lone isle 
Bound with great waves, may bid him rest 
Upon its opalescent breast. 
You could not see the darkening world 
Within his ebon vans close 'curled, 
Or know their blackness from the night : 
But if impatient for the light, 
He shook them free and sought the air 
To meet the earliest dawning there, 
Who would befriend a baby girl 
Or find my island'prisoned pearl ? 

[ 85 ] 



POEMS FOR ELSA AND HILDA 

Nay, wait a little while, my sweet, 
Lest all too soon your questing feet, 
Threading the palace, pause before 
The one desired, forbidden door : 
The thieves that Ali Baba knew 
Would leave the treasure, seeing you, 
And lock you in their cave from me, 
Deaf to my " Open sesame." 
I fear the curious'voweled speech 
Of those veiled women, and the reach 
Of the dread caliph's arm. Oh, where 
All is most beautiful, beware ! 

And when Aladdin bends to hear 
What you would whisper in his ear, 
(For he the wondrous lamp must hold 
That you may rub its tarnished gold,) 
Smile, darling little sorceress you, 
And say : " Sir, if my wish come true, 
Your jewel'garden I would see. 
And may my mother go with me ? " 



TO MY BABY HILDA 

{With Haivthornfs " Wonder- Book") 

Within your eyes are memories 
Of foam'ringed isles in azure seas, 
Of dragori'guarded groves, and gold 
That none but destined hands might hold. 
You were a sprite of that wild world 
Hercules challenged : you were curled 
Within the enchanted bowl and kept 
Watch for the hero when he slept, 
Lulled to oblivion curiously 
By pleasant clangor of the sea 
Against the hollow gold. You saw 
High'towering Atlas without awe, 
And, perched upon the tilted rim 
Of your odd craft, eluded him, 
You were so little. And vou came 
To a white isle of unknown name, 
Where hideous Gorgons laired together : 
And found Medusa's shining feather, 
And saw slim Perseus from the air 
Descend, and met Quicksilver there, 
Adorable god ! Oh, was it he 
[ 87 ] 



POEMS FOR ELSA AND HILDA 

Persuaded you to come to me, 
And bound the winged sandals on 
That bore you far from Helicon ? 

To'day you were remembering 
Some glorious prenatal thing, 
And I, who saw a snowy gleam 
Like a great sail across your dream, 
Heard music that I knew must be 
Orpheus awake, till suddenly 
The Argo swept with sheer surprise 
That blue ^Egean of your eyes, 
And there were you, close folded in 
The warmth of Jason's leopard'skin, 
Showered with foam, shouting in glee 
Till Jason laughed : and even she, 
The goddess of the talking oak, 
Smiled down at you and softly spoke, 
" Child, happy child, and is it true 
We sail to win the fleece for you ? " 

So when your eyes more thoughtfully 

Take on the color of the sea, 

I feel your heart go hungering home 

Down the immortal wind and foam 

To find again the friends you knew — 
[88] 



TO MY BABY HILDA 

Pandora and her wayward crew 
Of playfellows, small Marigold, 
The sisters weird and gray and old, 
Europa on the snow-white bull, 
The little lad who watched the pool 
Till Pegasus appeared and flew 
Sun/bright across the mirrored blue. 

Will you recall — that I may guess — 
The tint and breath and loveliness 
That were Proserpina ? Again 
Hear Ceres crying through the rain 
To call her darling back, and run 
To comfort her as you have done ? 

And since I would not have you miss 

That winged life, remember this : 

For you will Pegasus alight 

In any garden, and the white 

Small bloom Quicksilver cherished spring 

To beauty at your summoning. 

Stoop deftly down, my wonder 'maid, 

Secure that flower, and unafraid 

Enter the seaward'looking room 

That holds the song of Circe's loom : 

Draw very near, that you may see 

[89] 



POEMS FOR ELSA AND HILDA 

Ulysses cross her tapestry : 
And should you be inwoven there, 
Whisper the wanderer to beware. 
But I shall watch the fountain change 
In the wide porch, upflinging strange 
Frail crystal shapes that prophesy : 
And should a brisk youth happen by 
With cap most oddly fluttering, 
And wilful sandal'shoon that spring 
Into the air to make him laugh, 
And careless cloak and twisted staff, 
Shall I not say, befriending you 
As any mother ought to do, 
" Sir, will you bless her with your care 
Who has the golden fleece for hair? 
Give her the wingdd mind and wise 
Who has the deep sea in her eyes?" 



ENVOY 

TO ELSA AND HILDA 
LAS TARDES DE ABRIL 

Afternoons of April when the yuccas hold 
Ivory pagodas peaked with dusty gold, 
Will you find the garden with the Silver Tree ? 
Will my garden love you as it once loved me ? 

Busy with its mocking-birds and soft South wind, 
You shall find it loving, you shall know it kind : 
You shall seek the shy god, searching everywhere 
Afternoons of April when he hides him there ! 

May they leave you laughter as they flutter by, 
Afternoons of April winging down the sky ! 
Drop you plumes of twilight ere the moon is white, 
Loose the orangcodors for the dappled night ! 

Eyes as blue as heaven (O shy Roscsouled !), 
Eyes of russet amber (my Heart of Gold !), 
Only you shall love them, find them when you look 
Afternoons of April in your mother's book! 



CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 



^ 



